Unspoken
by vanillapudding5
Summary: She finds the parchment a few days after, crumpled at the bottom of her bag... [HHr, which makes this horribly AU, and also very exciting.]
1. Letter to Harry

**A/N: **Uh, yeeeeah. So. This is a…_thing_. A small thing. That I wrote and edited on two separate occasions in the wee hours of the morning. It's largely plotless, and more an attempt to get out of a writers' slump than anything.

But. Read it anyway.

And review.

And I'll love you forever.

Dear Harry,

For once in my life, I'm not quite sure where to start.

This is…an odd situation. Unbelievably awkward as well, but I suppose that goes without saying.

After six years of friendship, you know as well as I how much I depend on an ability to control myself; to hold my emotions, keep them in check, handle anything and everything that comes my way. And I've always had moderate success.

That is, until today.

_Today_, when it all came crashing at my feet.

To be perfectly honest, I can't rightly remember why you pulled me aside in the first place. Something about breakfast…or a troll…or maybe it was what trolls like to _eat_ for breakfast…?

Anyway. There we were, in that little alcove off the west corridor, talking about…whatever it was. And you were so serious, and your hand was still on my wrist where you'd tugged to signal that you fancied a chat, fingers brushing my skin, and you were so _close_, and…

I was trying so hard, Harry. _So_ hard. You _must_ have known that. Must have sensed or perhaps even _seen_ it in the way I was biting my lip and avoiding eye contact.

But I was doing all right. _Well_, even, once I found that small little crack on the wall just to your right, and the spider that was weaving its way in and out. Harold, I decided he was called, as you went on about toast and Quidditch, or whomever, and occupied myself with thoughts of his spider-wife Martha, and the thousands of tiny spider children they undoubtedly had; Mitchell and Edmund, Anne and Elizabeth…

And then you laughed, and I lost focus; found myself trapped in those bloody _mesmerizing_ eyes of yours…

And it all went to hell.

I jumped on you.

Sorry for that, by the way. I must've knocked you into that wall fairly hard; the bump on your head was rather large.

You should have seen your face. Pure shock if there ever was, followed by…well. I can't be precisely sure, as I'd closed my eyes.

I don't know what I was thinking. Or, no, I suppose I _do_ know what I was thinking: that you were gorgeous, and I wanted a snog. What I _don't_ know is what came over me. Why I couldn't hold it in, why I had no restraint, why there was no fear in my mind, no hesitancy, whatsoever, that you would pull away, or _run_, or possibly look at me in disgust and ask _why_ I'd done something as stupid as that?'

You didn't, you'll remember. Break away. Or faint. Or have any of a _number_ of less-than-desirable reactions, for that matter.

And I was surprised. Still am, in fact.

I…I didn't expect it. I didn't see it coming. And I certainly didn't think that you'd spin around, press me against that wall, and kiss _back_, of all things.

Ever. Not in a million years.

It was brilliant. You were excellent. I felt like I could soar –

But I apologize.

For afterward. For the way I backed away and stared at you, before making some God-awful excuse about research in the library. For leaving you there, with your hair tousled, and your eyes wide, and your breath ragged. For being too afraid to explain myself.

I'm not sorry for the kiss, itself, Harry. I won't _allow_ myself to be. Being with you, like _that_, it's…it's the best I've felt in a long while. Since Sirius' death when you began to pull away; before all that silliness with Ron last year. I haven't felt so free, so _alive_ since…ever, really.

Things have _never_ been so right as you and I, together, thoughts racing, hearts pounding, tongues colliding –

I sound like a cheap, trashy romance novel.

It's just – I want you to know that I –

I need you.

I want you.

_I love you_.

Sweet Merlin, there's no way I'm sending this.


	2. Letter to Hermione

**A/N:** This is all your fault, you know. You, and you, and…_you_. Your fault(s). Entirely. And collectively. Or whatever. I'd _wanted _this to be a one-shot, and then _you_ all came along, insisting that it couldn't stand alone, and planted these absurd ideas in my head that wouldn't go away until I'd written Harry's POV.

And now that I'm here… It's not enough. So. I fully intend on adding a third and _final_ (underline, underline, underline) narrative bit on…I don't know. Events happening afterward and whatnot. To satisfy those of you who actually _care_, as well as myself. I suppose.

Oh. Right. _And_. Just because I forgot to add it, before…

**Disclaimer: **If JKR was writing this…well. She wouldn't be. Because it's DELUSIONAL. (And I don't care.)

Feedback's always appreciated… grin

Hermione.

What the bloody hell is going on?

I don't understand how you can just _kiss_ someone and then –

The library? _The library?!_ After something like _that_? I know you love reading, but –

I'm confused.

You've always told me to mind my own business, you know. "If Dumbledore wanted you to know what Fluffy was guarding in the third floor corridor, he'd have _told_ you, Harry," you said in first year. "Don't go looking for Sirius Black, Harry," in third.

You'll be happy to know that I was damn _well_ minding my own business last night.

I _was_. In fact, I'd spent the entire day _preceding_ doing just that.

I woke up at half past seven to the ever-lovely strains of indistinguishable mumbling and moaning coming from behind Seamus' bed-curtains.

Didn't get involved in _that_ one (though I'd've _liked_ to have used the opportunity to empty the water basin next to my four-poster).

During lunch, when Ron was inhaling food so fast that, for a moment, I feared for his safety, I _didn't_ snatch the fork from his grasp as this 'Hero's Complex' you speak of so often seemingly entitled. _Nor_ did I move the tripe out of his reach so as to prevent him from choking to death (though that might _possibly_ have been because fish innards and I don't get on well, and I wanted him to finish it off _himself _before you forced the platter in its entirety down my throat, blathering about the merits of proteins and vitamins in a nutritious diet).

Clearly, I refrained from interfering in other's affairs there, and Ron was perfectly happy (the pig).

It wasn't until _later_ that things took a turn for the worst.

They started out innocently enough. All I wanted was to ask you a question about the currency mint in Bristol. When the galleon was first introduced, how it affected commerce in the Wizarding community over the following century, what the direct impacts on trade were, and so on. Nothing even remotely related to ghosts…or Binns…or that History of Magic assignment that's due tomorrow that I'm completely capable of _doing on my own_. At all. In the slightest.

But that's beside the point.

The _point_ was that I pulled you aside nicely - _politely_, even - and was resolutely minding my own business (said business having _nothing_ to do with getting better marks, mind), when you went and –

When you _went_, and –

Merlin, I can't even put it down on paper.

I should've known that something was wrong. Er, well. Not _wrong_, necessarily, but…odd. _Different_. Usually, when I talk to you, you look me straight in the eye. When I ask questions that pertain _don't_ pertain to schoolwork, you get this funny little furrow in your brow, as if you're trying to visualize the spell or potion ingredients, and your eyes get all squinty, and you bite your lip in concentration.

You were chewing on that lip rather ferociously last night, I must say, but I felt like… I felt like you weren't truly paying attention. Like your mind was elsewhere, and I swear – I _swear_ – you kept looking at someone over my shoulder.

Though, now that I think on it, I was standing in front of a wall. Hmm…

Anyway, that's irrelevant.

I started speaking nonsense after a few moments, actually, just to see if you were _listening_. (You weren't.)

It was halfway through such a monologue on unicorns, paperclips, and the various advantages of fat muggles who eat donuts for a living when I laughed at the sheer stupidity of it all (and probably a bit at what I may have misconstrued to be wit). I must have startled you because you jumped, looked at me, your mouth forming that little 'O,' and proceeded to do one of the most unexpected, surprising, _wonderful_ things, of my entire life.

…I was minding my own business.

Until you threw your arms around my neck and kissed me.

Or, well. _Technically_, I suppose 'shoved me into a _wall_, threw your arms around my neck and kissed me,' would be the proper phrasing. I've got a lump on my head the size of a _Remembrall_ to prove it.

But that's neither here nor there. What _is_ is that we –

I don't think –

You _can't_ just –

For Merlin's sake. If you thought I'd 'mind my own business' after _that_, Hermione, you really aren't as smart as I've given you credit for.

In first year, when you hugged me after the Logic Puzzle? Told me I was a 'great Wizard'? I minded my own business, then. Patted you awkwardly on the back, and mumbled something about not being as good as all that.

At the end of fourth year, on the platform, when you kissed my cheek? If blushing can be considered keeping to oneself, then I did an excellent job.

But this time…_this_ time… I don't know. When we were younger, I was embarrassed, and didn't _think_ of possible reactions, or what to do, or if I wanted to do anything at _all_… We were friends. Best friends. You were the girl I could call if I needed help, who I could _always_ talk to, no matter what else was happening, who saw me as Harry; not the 'Boy Who Lived,' not the 'Chosen One,' just…_Harry_.

And you still are. You do all of those things, even now. I _still_ feel completely comfortable in your presence, I _still_ come to you before anyone else; you're _still_ the sodding _voice in my head_…

But…something's changed since we were eleven. Even in the three years since we were fourteen.

When you kissed me last night…well. I _certainly_ wasn't thinking of your study skills. I wasn't thinking of your marks, and I wasn't thinking that as "platonic friends," we shouldn't have been snogging in the first place.

I wasn't thinking much of _anything_, really, which was odd, but at the same time…predictable, somehow. There were no doubts, no worries, no questions necessary; only the feel of your lips on mine, my hands tangled in your hair, the scent of…_whatever_ it is that makes you smell so nice.

It was right.

_We _were right.

_Are_.

Together.

But then you left, and I – I didn't know what to think. I _still _don't.

I haven't gotten much sleep, since. Any at all, really. At a quarter past three, I gave up hope of rest and came here, to the common room.

It's nearly six o'clock, now. And I honestly don't know where the time's gone, or why it's taken me so long to get this down; it's hardly four feet of parchment.

I just – I wonder. Why you felt it necessary to pull away. Why you made excuses for it. Why you avoided eye contact and didn't say anything on your way up to the girls' dorm later on.

Do you regret it?

I don't.

But I worry. I don't _want_ us to stop speaking to each other; I don't want things to be awkward, and I sure as hell don't want to look at you every day, see your face, and remember the expression it had before…_or_ after… What it was like… I don't want to spend the rest of my _life_ pondering where it all went wrong, because truthfully, neither of us knows when this will all be over. Voldemort's still out there, and I… I want to take advantage of the time I have. Surely you must understa -

Merlin, there you are. _You're coming this way_. Maybe I can –

Oh, hell. I'm throwing this into the fire.


	3. Resolution

**A/N:** We'll just skip past the part where I recognize that it's been nearly seven months since I last posted and move on to Part III, shall we?

Marvelous.

She finds the parchment a few days after, crumpled at the bottom of her bag. The "H" in his name has been smudged, an ink splatter nearly covering the _Dear_ she'd written, crossed out, then gone over again. Knowing what to say has never this hard before, not when greetings were greetings, and simple, and she didn't have this fear that the way she's begun however many _hundreds_ of notes and letters over the years will suddenly be misconstrued now that she's thinking of it this way, and maybe he is, too, and if he is then what does that mean, and when did life become so complicated?

She can remember first year, second year, third, so sure of herself, so convinced of her ability to take control, to "be the bigger man," as her father used to say, that there was no hesitation in doing something like setting Snape's robes on fire. No questions, no second thoughts whatsoever in choosing to use the Time Turner.

She's having second thoughts now.

Strong, self-assured Hermione Granger has been avoiding Harry Potter for the past four days. Strong, self-assured Hermione Granger has feigned a full schedule, busy busy busy working on a Transfiguration paper she finished two weeks ago.

Truth be told, strong, self-assured Hermione Granger is neither strong, nor self-assured in the slightest. She is, rather, scared shitless. It's a dynamic she's not familiar or comfortable with, this silence. Maybe with Ron, maybe with Ginny. Never with Harry. They never truly get into arguments, she and Harry, and when they do, when one does something stupid like turn the other's brand-new Firebolt in to McGonagall because one worries about the other's safety practically every minute of every hour of every bloody _day_, it never lasts for long. After a few hours pass one of them will finally crack, unable to stand it any longer, and say something like, "the eggs are good this morning," over the breakfast table and, simple as that, it'll be over. Sometimes an apology if the situation merits, more often not, an unspoken understanding sufficing.

But this time… It's gone on long enough, and she knows it's her responsibility to end it, she _started_ it, after all, but she can't – she _can't_ – and it makes her feel weak and incompetent and not at all herself.

There's a crash, followed by a chorus of giggling as some second year loses his hand of Exploding Snap at the next table over. The common room's noisy and crowded now that dinner's finished and she _can't concentrate_, so she flattens the parchment, presses it into her Charms text, and heads to the one place where she always feels like she belongs: the library.

Flying helps him to forget.

As terribly melodramatic as it sounds, it's true. There's something about being on a broomstick with white noise and wind whipping all around, making his eyes water and his skin feel tight, that takes his mind off of things. Something that makes the important, sometimes unpleasant things seem not so important or unpleasant any longer. Like if he can do this one thing, catch this tiny little golden ball just once more, maybe the rest will end up all right, too.

The rational part of him knows that it won't - he can fly all he likes, but the horcruxes will still be out there, Voldemort will still be plotting, that Potions essay will still sit unfinished at his desk, waiting for him to return - but there's also that small sliver of hope, the twinge deep down that makes him sure he could be an optimist if only he'd try harder.

It's the twinge that tells him that maybe, if he stays out here long enough, Hermione will be speaking to him again when he comes back.

She's not angry – at least, he doesn't think - and he knows he's never quite been an expert on girls, but he also knows that she started it and that has to count for something, doesn't it?

Which narrows the list of Reasons for Avoidance to one.

She regrets it.

And that's what it all comes down to. It doesn't _matter_ that she kissed him first. He can replay it over and over again, recall that muffled "oh," of surprise when he pressed her against the wall or how her fingertips tickled the back of his neck in a way that sent shivers down his spine as many times as he likes, but it always ends the same, with her running away, and no amount of magic can change that.

When the snitch darts in front of him he lunges out of habit, catching it in a fist. It's still struggling when he calls practice, still squirming when he lands his broom, but even though he can _feel_ its fragile wings beating against his palm as he walks off the field and vaguely recognizes the accomplishment, it hasn't fixed everything like he'd hoped, either.

Funny, that.

The sun's just setting as she steps into the west corridor, the wall next to her shining gold in those last moments of too-bright light that come before the gray. She shifts the weight of her books to her other arm, looking everywhere but the alcove she's passing, turns the corner –

And runs into something that feels very much like a chest.

The thing that bothers him most about this whole situation is that she hasn't even _said_ anything. If there's one thing that Harry's absolutely certain of, it's that Hermione Granger _never_ says _nothing_. She's brushed off rolled eyes and exasperated sighs for as long as he's known her, caring more about proving her point than what others think. And he's admired that, he _has_, really. It's just that – he doesn't know, exactly. All these years - in all this time - she's never had any trouble saying what she thinks and _now_, when it _matters_, when his stomach's actually started twisting in a manner that is not at all masculine and something in his chest _hurts_ when he sees her, _now_ she has nothing to say.

It'd be easier, he thinks, if she'd just get it over with, even if it's to tell him that it was a mistake, that she didn't know what she was doing, that she – that she thought he was someone else, or…_something_. _Anything_. Because at least then he could stop wondering. At least then they'd be talking. At least _then_ things could begin to go back to normal.

He gasps a little and takes a step back when someone walks round the bend and into him. Books clatter to the floor, and he's stooping to pick them up, and he's apologizing and straightening to hand them back, and oh, there's Hermione.

He's obviously on his way back from practice. There's a smudge on his right cheek and a grass stain just below the last undone button of his white oxford. He adjusts his glasses, muttering as he stands with her books in his arms, and she realizes suddenly that he hasn't noticed it's her yet.

"Sorry," he says again, looking up and then freezing. "Oh."

"Harry," she replies, by way of explanation. Her Charms book's at the top of the stack, and the parchment's poking out from behind the cover. She pulls the load hastily back into her own arms.

"I didn't see you," he says pointlessly, staring at his now-empty hands as though he's not quite sure what to do with them.

She nods, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. She should say something.

She doesn't know what.

And, apparently, neither does he.

If there were a list made of the most memorable awkward silences in history, he's positive this one would rank highly. He's standing here, she's standing there, and this isn't at all how it should be. It reminds him of that time with Cho under the mistletoe, actually, except that then there was crying, and then there was kissing, and now there is neither, only silence, but her face is coming closer and closer to his, and he thinks he's responsible for it, and that isn't good at all.

He reminds himself that they've just spent the last week avoiding each other. He knows how much he's hated it. He tells himself to take a deep breath, nice and easy, count from five and back away.

He breathes in. Out. One more time. Now.

_Five_.

She's watching him.

_Four_.

Her eyes flicker down for just a second, before they're on his again.

_Three_.

She blinks.

_Twoonezero._

This is the fourth time he's run his fingers through his hair in the last two minutes, and she's tempted to pull his hand away so he'll _stop already_ because it's making her more nervous than she needs to be, but the contact would probably be awkward, and awkwardness is possibly the one thing they need _least_ right now, so she doesn't.

The tip of her nose itches, which is really very typical, isn't it, because it only ever does that in situations like these, when any sort of movement is far too loud and the only other way to make it better is to wiggle it around and look completely foolish.

Harry coughs uneasily and she swipes at the itch inconspicuously with the side of her hand.

There's a beat. She chances a glance at him and he looks away, then back again. Their eyes lock, and for one incredibly clichéd moment, time stops.

…Until suddenly it's speeding up again, and her back is reacquainted with the wall once more.

Well, he thinks vaguely, _that _wasn't supposed to happen.

And then her hand's in his hair and her eyes are fluttering shut, and it's becoming very difficult for him to focus.

So he doesn't bother trying.

They keep finding themselves here, she reflects, pulling him closer. This isn't how it's supposed to be at all, she and Harry, because they're friends, "_best_ friends, and nothing more," and this should be boring and bookish because _she's_ boring and bookish, but it feels righter than anything has before, and it's certainly not boring, which is so utterly _absurd_ that she almost wants to laugh.

He brushes the pad of his thumb against her cheek tentatively, as though she's some small creature in the forest that he's worried he'll frighten away with sudden movements, which she supposes is understandable, considering what happened the last time. When he pulls away, she notices the slight tilt of his mouth, like something's tugging upward on the right side, like he's fighting it on the left because he's afraid that surrendering will only make any disappointment that much stronger after living without it, however briefly.

"I have to go to the library," comes out accidentally, and she marvels at the way that tilt can disappear so quickly, selfishly pleased to know that she can cause such a reaction without a wand or spell.

"All right," is all he says aloud, but studying his face it's painfully clear just why he never succeeded in Occlumency – he wears his heart on his sleeve and his emotions in his eyes, and she can see that inside, he's convinced himself that she's running away again.

"Would you like to come?" She fixes his collar to occupy her hands.

The tilt's coming back, curving a little more than before. "Will this involve studying?"

"Probably."

"Thought so," he picks her books up from where they've fallen for a second time, scooping a creased parchment lying alongside them into the pile. "Let's go, then."

When they pass Madame Pince on the way to a table, she slides something into his trouser pocket, bumps his pinky-finger softly with hers and makes no mention of what's just happened.

He finds that he doesn't mind much at all.


End file.
